


rebooted

by novoaa1



Series: find you again [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Violence, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Bruises, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Fist Fights, Flashbacks, Gen, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Head Injury, Hypothermia, Knives, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), NOT born out of a place of self-hatred though, Physical Abuse, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Self-Mutilation, Snow, Swearing, Throwing Knives, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, alexei shostakov is kind of the worst, choking (and not the fun kind), instead she just gets stabby, it's complicated okay, mentioned marijuana, which is like cute until it isn't u feel, yelena belova doesn't know how to deal with her emotions, yelena belova needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “I want you to drop Natalia’s gun and slide it away from you.”Your blood runs cold. She—whoeversheis—has eyes on you. What’s more, she knows about Natalia. “And why would I do that?”“Because it’s either that or a bullet,” she informs you calmly. She’s not bluffing. “Madame said to bring you in alive. That leaves much room for deviation.”You drop the gun on the pavement, hear it clatter. After a moment’s pause, you kick it away from you.“Good girl,” she lauds, her voice dripping with derision.Or: You run into a couple of familiar faces from your past. It’s not quite a reunion, per se, because that would imply some measure of civility—camaraderie, even.Things snowball from there.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Wanda Maximoff & Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader, Yelena Belova & Reader
Series: find you again [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099409
Comments: 22
Kudos: 137





	rebooted

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags before continuing, dude... all of them
> 
> this installment contains a lot more blood, gore, and injury than the others
> 
> i honestly didn't realize how much until i had to go through and edit it to fit tumblr's format so i could cross-post it there
> 
> anyways. here's a new bit!

“ _Hello, Y/N_ ,” a feminine voice drawls in greeting over the line. Russian. A native speaker.

You don’t recognize it—not that she needs to know that.

“ _Was shooting my friend really necessary_ ?” you ask instead, fingers curling around the pink plastic lighter in your pocket. 

“ _How else was I meant to get your attention_ ?”

“ _They have phones these days, you know_ ,” you inform her dryly, searching your surroundings for a sign of anything unusual. “ _Then again, you always did have a flair for the dramatic_.” A shot in the dark. 

The girl—woman on the other end laughs, like she’s genuinely tickled by the sentiment. “ _Oh, come now. I know you don’t remember me. After our last op, Madame wiped you until you were drooling. You couldn’t even remember your own name_.”

Madame. Black Room. The chair. 

Rage flares in your gut, hot and bitter. You tamp down on it, forcing yourself to breathe. Anger is a tool, nothing more. “ _Alright. You wanted my attention; you have it. What now_ ?”

“ _I want you to drop Natalia’s gun and slide it away from you_.”

Your blood runs cold. She—whoever _she_ is—has eyes on you. What’s more, she knows about Natalia. “ _And why would I do that_ ?”

“ _Because it’s either that or a bullet_ ,” she informs you calmly. She’s not bluffing. “ _Madame said to bring you in alive. That leaves much room for deviation_.”

You drop the gun on the pavement, hear it clatter. After a moment’s pause, you kick it away from you. 

“ _Good girl_ ,” she lauds, her voice dripping with derision. 

A whistling sound in the air, your only warning a split second before agony explodes in your left shoulder. 

“ _Fuck_ !” you curse. The phone clatters to the pavement as you collapse forward, just barely managing to brace yourself with your right forearm instead of face-planting.

You bite your tongue before more profanity can escape you, discomfort and white-hot pain prickling along your skin. Fear wells in your chest, expansive and hot and growing, growing, _growing_. You clench your jaw tight and will it away. 

Fear serves no purpose. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

With a not insignificant amount of effort, you shove yourself back up—first to your knees, then to your feet, sagging against the dumpster for support. Blood smears the dented green dumpster at your back. And there, in the middle of the crimson-red splotch when you turn to look—a single Soviet slug, no rifling. 

A through-and-through. Silver lining?

You shuffle around the edge of the dumpster with a hand pressed to your bleeding shoulder, stumble back, fall down into a crouch against the other side. There. At least the same shooter can’t put another bullet in you. 

God, it hurts. 

Your palm is warm and wet with your own blood, your shoulder throbs like a bitch, and—

Just under a hundred paces away, a broad-shouldered white man with a square jaw and a trench coat is making a beeline straight for you. He has close-cropped dirty-blonde hair, a permanent scowl, and the pinkish scar running diagonally down his cheek… You gave that to him. 

You don’t know how, but you did. 

His name… Oleg? No. 

Alek? Closer… 

_Alexei_.

Oh, fuck. Oh, no, no, no, _no_. 

He’s bad news. 

Pretty much everyone from your past is, but him especially. Again, you can’t for the life of you remember why. You’ll just have to trust your gut on this one.

With your free hand, you scrabble around for the knife in your waistband… pull it out, weigh it in the palm of your hand. 

Alexei’s closer, now. Maybe ten… twelve paces away, and closing in fast. Christ, his inseam must be huge. 

You push off the dumpster, pull back and chuck the knife with all your might. The backwards momentum throws you back into cold, hard metal with a _thunk!_ and the impact jostles your shoulder badly enough to have you gasping in pain.

And yet, your aim is true. Years of barbarous training under Madame’s watchful eye has ensured it’ll never be anything less, wounded or not.

The knife sinks into his gut, making him stumble mid-step and let out a pained grunt amidst a slew of obscenities in Russian. 

You feel a twinge of vindication at that, even if it won’t slow him down for long. 

And sure enough, he’s already recovered: picking up his pace, the look on his face even more murderous than before. 

You pull yourself into a fighting stance, the dumpster at your back, one hand pressed to your wounded shoulder. God, it aches. 

Almost as soon as the thought forms, you shake your head to clear it. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

“ _You fucking bitch_ ,” he pants when he’s a couple strides out. There are at least two firearms under his trench coat, not to mention the large knife he’s wielding in a white-knuckled grip. 

You wonder why he doesn’t just take out a gun and shoot you. Depending on where he aimed, the chances are fairly good that you’d survive. 

Instead he comes at you head-on, and you’re quick to meet him. 

Duck a punch, lurch back to avoid a hard slash of his knife through your carotid, land a hard kick beneath his ribcage that makes him growl.

Dodge another jab, land an open-palmed strike to his sternum. You grin when you hear it crack. 

Still, you’re just delaying the inevitable. You know it as well as he. 

Two neat dodges later, you see him wind up for a right hook that’ll make it lights-out for you the moment it lands. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

You make sure to channel all your momentum into landing a hard upwards kick to his crotch before—

His knuckles slam into your face with all the force of a brick wall, breaking your nose with a sickening _crunch!_

Pain explodes in the back of your skull as you fall back and hit something behind you with a resounding _clang!_ —the dumpster. 

_Oh, that’s a concussion, for sure_. 

The last thing you see before it all goes black is Alexei’s smug face grinning down at you. 

_Asshole_. 

— —

You wake to someone pouring liquid fire on your wounded shoulder, twisting the blade in an open wound. 

“ _Fuck_ !” you curse in Russian, then cringe as a stab of pain explodes along the bridge of your nose. 

You’re beside yourself, writhing on the floor in a bra, jogger pants and nothing else. It’s… cold. So very, very cold.

It doesn’t scare you. Why would it? You were raised in the cold.

Two large hands curl around each bicep in an iron grip, pinning you down to the floor while Yelena—

_Yelena?_

You don’t know a Yelena. Do you?

“ _Quiet_ ,” the blonde woman—whose name might be Yelena but probably isn’t—hisses as she looms over you. Why is she upside-down?

Why does she look so familiar?

Wait.

The mission report on the tablet. Westchester County. The blonde woman choking you in a headlock. 

This is her!

Yelena?

No, you don’t know a Yelena. Do you?

“ _You’re going to be fine_ ,” maybe-Yelena tells you almost angrily, murder in her eyes. “ _Just let us stop the bleeding_.”

The back of your head feels warm… it’s resting on—

Oh! She’s got your head in her lap as she holds a half-full bottle of vodka over your left shoulder, tipping it to—

You bite down on your tongue _hard_ as a flood of alcohol douses your bleeding shoulder, setting your pain receptors on fire.

That won’t do. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

It hurts more if you fight it. You’ve known that since you were little. 

You listen to your heart rate, the way it thunders in your ears… Inhale, exhale. In, out.

Let your fists loosen at your sides. 

“ _There you go_ ,” maybe-Yelena says. Her expression is like stone above you—flat, cold, unmoving. And yet, she almost sounds as though she’s trying to... _soothe_ you. “ _That’s it_.”

Another breath. In, out.

Your eyelids flutter. You force your muscles to relax even as Alexei’s meaty hands press bruises into your flesh.

Your jaw aches from clenching it so hard, your broken nose throbs, and your vision is blurry around the edges—but you can get through this. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

More searing pain as something swipes over the bullet hole in your shoulder—gauze, maybe. You bite your tongue and don’t flinch when you taste copper. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

“ _Almost done_ ,” maybe-Yelena assures you. Her tone is hard and flat even as the words themselves imply some inherent degree of concern. You peer up at her a little more intently. Were you two… friends? “ _Breathe, Angel. We’re bandaging you up now_.”

“ _Stop coddling her_ ,” Alexei snarls. 

Maybe-Yelena’s head snaps up, and you don’t have to see the look on her face to know it’s absolutely murderous. “ _Suck my dick, Shostakov_ ,” she growls. You stifle a snort. “ _Let go of her arm. I need to wrap it so it stays_.”

Alexei huffs, but does as she asks. Your fingers tingle as blood rushes back into the limb. 

Your arm hurts like a bitch to move, and propping yourself up on an elbow to give maybe-Yelena room to work is about a thousand times worse. You grit your teeth and bear it. Pain will be compartmentalized.

A minute later, the bullet wound in your shoulder is covered and wrapped, held fast with bits of tape. 

“ _Great_ ,” maybe-Yelena proclaims, examining her own handiwork with critical eyes. “ _Now you’ll stop bleeding all over the floor_.”

You peer up at her. “ _You know… It’s rude to shoot people, Yelena_ ,” you tell her solemnly after a moment. Every word sends a twinge of pain through your fractured nose.

Her eyes widen a fraction before her gaze narrows, flickering with something you can’t quite place. “ _You remembered_.” 

“ _Madame wiped me after Westchester, didn’t she_ ?”

Yelena shrugs, sliding your head from her lap and getting to her feet. “ _You deserved it_.” Something about her tone tells you she doesn’t really believe it.

“ _Fair enough_.” You’re in no position to argue. “ _Help me up_ ?”

Yelena’s lips twitch. “ _Help yourself up_.” With that, she walks away. 

Despite yourself, you feel the beginnings of a grin pulling at your lips. 

— —

“ _So_.” You drop into the empty co-pilot’s seat in the cockpit, fighting a grin when Yelena slants you a glare. Alexei’s back in the cargo bay where your blood still stains the floors, strapped into his seat and pouting like a third-grader. “ _Wanna tell me where we’re going_ ?”

Yelena pointedly turns her attention back to piloting. It’s dark out—though every now and then, the nebulous fog of a cloud will remind you where you are. “ _Russia_ ,” she says flatly after a beat. 

You don’t roll your eyes, though it’s not for lack of wanting. _No, shit_. “ _What does it matter if you tell me? They’ll have me back in the chair the moment we land. I won’t remember anyways_.”

Another sidelong glance followed by more silence. Then, eventually, “ _Voronezh_.”

Your blood runs cold. Natalia… No, she wouldn’t dare go there. 

Who are you kidding? Of course she would. Sold— _James_ , too. 

“ _Why_ ?” you hear yourself ask from beneath a sea of mounting dread. 

Yelena flashes you a droll look. It anchors you—somewhat. “ _With Iskitim compromised, it’s the next best thing_.”

You nod. That makes sense. You still feel like throwing up, though. “ _Who runs it_ ?”

“ _Another Madame_.” Yelena shrugs. “ _Younger. Colder_.”

_Oh, joy_. “ _ETA_ ?”

Yelena glances to the digital clock on the dash. It reads 02:58. “ _Twenty minutes_.”

You blow out a long breath. “ _Can’t wait_.”

— —

At T-minus 15 minutes to arrival, you manage to track down Wanda’s long-sleeve Henley—strewn across the floor of the cargo bay, its left shoulder torn and stained with your blood. Still, it provides some measure of warmth, and even now carries the faintest hint of Wanda’s fragrant perfume. For that, you’re grateful. 

As for the Led Zeppelin tee, you bundle that up and give it to Yelena… tell her to return it to you, after. 

Yelena doesn’t do you the disservice of asking what you mean by ‘after’... just takes the shirt and stuffs it into her go-bag without a word. 

You imagine the chances she’ll actually get it back to you are something like 40-60. 

Then again, maybe it’s better that she doesn’t. 

A moment later, you announce you need to use the bathroom.

Which is true, actually. 

Yelena nods, doesn’t even take her eyes off the pitch-black night to tell you, “ _You know where it is_.”

Dismissed, you cut through the cargo bay and back toward the restroom. Alexei tracks your path with a silent glare, but he doesn’t try and stop you.

A small mercy—but a mercy nonetheless. 

The bathroom is small, modest. About the size of an airplane lavatory, and designed accordingly. The moment you’re inside, you lock the door.

You have to bite back a gasp as you glimpse your reflection in the small, rectangular mirror mounted over the sink. 

Christ, you look like shit. 

Dried blood smeared beneath your nose, a painful-looking split in your lower lip. Huh. You hadn’t even realized that. Disheveled hair, a streak of dirt across your cheek. Swollen nose (definitely fractured), eye sockets ringed with black-ish bruising that’s already begun healing into lighter purple. 

Well. You’ve certainly had worse. 

There’s a shard of a beer bottle still digging into your hips along the base of your spine… likely from falling on the streets back in the City. You pluck it out with little trouble, then hold it up for examination beneath the harsh light. 

The glass is green, originally, though most of it is covered in your blood. Heineken, maybe?

You don’t risk turning on the faucet. You don’t want Alexei and Yelena to hear.

Instead, you wipe the slippery shard off on your joggers—once, twice, thrice. 

It’s far from sanitary, but it’ll have to do. 

You look down at your body, taking stock. Your thoughts race. 

Where would they never think to look?

As soon as the answer comes, you have to bite back a groan. 

Just because pain will be compartmentalized, doesn’t mean you have to like it.

With a noiseless sigh, you shuck off your joggers, let them pool at your feet before stepping out. Prop your bare foot up on the counter, crane your head down to glimpse the crease of your knee. 

If you can do this with a steady hand, control your strokes such that each letter is tiny but ultimately legible… maybe you can pull this off.

You exhale out a long breath, eyeing your bruised reflection in the mirror. Time to write a message to your future self. 

— — 

At T-minus 2 minutes to arrival, a strange sense of calm settles over you. Your heart rate slows, the fog in your head recedes. The throb of your wounded shoulder grows distant; the pain in your nose and newly-carved sting at the crease of your knee, even more so. 

For the first time in a very long time, you are not of two different minds. 

You know exactly what you have to do. 

You touch down in a field of frost-bitten grass, Alexei and Yelena flanking you closely on either side. Christ, it’s fucking freezing.

The skies are pitch-dark overhead, dotted with twinkling stars. A flood of light from the cargo bay illuminates the frosted green up ahead. 

At the foot of the ramp, your welcome wagon awaits—party of three. Their figures are shrouded in darkness, gaunt faces illuminated by the harsh light. You can easily make them out, provided you focus hard enough. 

A large, bulky mass of a man with decidedly conventional European features—close-cropped dark hair, eyes blue like ice, thin lips downturned to form a decisive scowl. He’s wearing a long, dark coat that does well to conceal the SMGs in twin holsters and the pistol in his waistband underneath. 

A woman with straight black hair piled into a neat bun, and a glacial blue-eyed gaze that makes the macho man’s look warm in comparison. Handguns strapped to each of her hips, various knives stowed all across her person. If you had to guess, you’d say she’s probably at least a decade or two older than you are.

Between the woman and the man, a younger woman—slim, blonde, elegant. She has grey eyes, an upturned nose, and an expression so carefully blank, it sends shivers down your spine. You don’t recognize her—at least, you don’t think you do. And yet, the cunning glint in her grey-eyed stare is giving you the strangest sense of déjà vu. 

Whatever. You’ll figure it out later, or you won’t. No skin off your back. 

They make up a scary trio, to be sure. 

You don’t care. You know what you need to do. You know who you need to protect, and that means you can’t risk them taking you in for an interrogation beforehand. 

No, you need to make sure the first thing they do is slam your ass in the chair and wipe you until you can’t remember your own fucking name. 

That in mind, you walk down the ramp calmly—no resistance. Gait steady, hands folded at your waist, a single clear-cut objective in your mind’s eye. 

When frosted-over grass stings the bare flats of your feet (Stark will just have to forgive you the cast-away Crocs), you don’t falter. 

No, you walk right up to the blonde one (the apparent head of their solemn-looking troika), shoulders hunched and head bowed like you’re ashamed. 

When you’re just an arm’s length away, you pause and give her a second to relax her vigilance, simultaneously clocking Alexei and Yelena’s presence at your back. 

Then, you wind yourself up and take your best swing. 

— —

Unfortunately, Blondie’s quick enough to duck your swing before it can nail her in the beak. A likely graduate, then. 

Terminator lunges for you next. You’re quick to dodge his swing in favor of delivering a hard left-footed kick to his ribcage that barely makes him stumble. The movement twinges your wounded shoulder something awful, but you don’t care. 

A split second later, Alexei and Yelena pounce on you from behind. In a flash, Alexei’s got your left arm in a ruthless hold that tears the bullet wound open anew, while Yelena’s grip is marginally kinder but no less efficient. That leaves your legs free with full range of motion. 

Not very smart of them. 

You jump up with both feet, stomp your heel down _hard_ into the side of Alexei’s nearest knee. His groan of pain is music to your ears. 

There’s no crack to indicate a bone fracture—maybe a torn LCL or displaced patella, then—but the blow has him collapsing down to one knee, loosening his hold on you enough that you can wriggle free. 

And, wouldn’t you know it—your knife (technically _Hill’s_ knife) is in his belt. 

You snatch it up, then turn back to Yelena—only to be met with her fist slamming into your jaw, whipping your head violently to one side. 

You barely get your hands up in time to block a series of alternating kicks, then make Yelena duck beneath a strike that would’ve otherwise slashed her jugular. 

The older woman joins the fun, then, leveling a high kick to your skull that would’ve easily concussed you had you not managed to duck it just in time. Her next kick, however, gets you square beneath the sternum, damn near knocking you onto your ass. 

As you stagger back to regain your balance, frosted grass stinging the flats of your feet, you take a brief moment to wonder why none of them have pulled their guns on you yet. 

They must really need you alive. You don’t know if the thought is comforting or just terrifying. 

You’re just about to side-step Yelena’s next swing when two strong arms take you in a headlock from behind, pinning you in place as Yelena’s punch slams directly into your already-broken nose—likely shattering the bone. 

_Fuck, that hurt_. 

Alexei’s hold around your neck is like iron, compressing your airway until every breath is nothing more than a faint, mousy hiss. 

Hell, he doesn’t let up even when you flip the knife and stab it directly back into his massive quad. 

You must’ve really pissed him off. 

With the very last vestiges of your energy, you unstick the knife from Alexei’s thigh with a grunt, then flick it underhand across your body—right into dark-haired woman’s shoulder. A perfect throw. 

She lurches back onto her heels with a muttered curse, fixing you with a cold glare that seems to burn straight through you… but you’re already fading, and you’re fading fast. 

The last thing you see is pitch-dark skies, a fuming Yelena, and the barrel of Terminator’s Beretta M9 before it all goes dark. 

— —

When you come to, there’s no mistaking where you are. A darkened room… glaring white light boring down on you from above. 

A needle in the crook of your elbow, ice pumping into your veins. An IV filled with translucent blue liquid instead of saline. 

The hardness of the chair beneath your limbs… cool metal restraints around your wrists, ankles, and neck. A familiar headpiece encircling your cranium, and thin electrode pads placed upon either of your temples. 

That’s all the detail of your surroundings you can manage to assimilate before a familiar male voice says, “Let’s begin.”

Just like that, you know your time is up. 

There’s the telltale hum of electrical equipment powering up, a blinding white light, and then… nothing.

Absolutely nothing. 

— — 

Cold. Cold. 

So fucking cold. 

Ice in your veins. It chills you from the inside out. 

But, no matter. You were raised in the cold. 

Yes, that sounds right. The cold… 

You can’t feel your legs. You’ve stopped shivering… a bad sign. A very, very bad sign. 

Can the serum heal hypothermia?

God, you’re just so fucking cold. 

And… trapped. Trapped in a snowy hellscape. Grey flakes of icy snow pelt you relentlessly from gloomy skies overhead; melted snow trickles down your spine. A particularly brisk gust of wind makes you stumble on your feet. 

You can’t feel your legs. 

You’ve stopped shivering… That’s bad, right? 

The serum can heal it. The serum heals everything. 

It didn’t heal Natalia. She died. 

Who is Natalia? You don’t know a Natalia. 

And anyway, what does it matter if she died?

People die. That’s a part of life. 

_We have what we have when we have it_. Yeah. Exactly. 

Whose words are those?

Another sharp gust of wind. Pins and needles stabbing your skin. 

The world tilts to the side… and doesn’t right itself. 

You’re falling. Falling, falling, falling… 

Down.

A field blanketed with powdery snow. It’s everywhere—seeping into your shirt, penetrating your lungs until it burns to breathe, pillowing your bleeding cheek with a sensation so impossibly cold, it’s numb. 

The pain recedes, and that’s all there is—numbness. Nothingness. 

Snow melts against your cheek, but it feels hot. Molten, like liquified fire.

You can’t feel your legs. Can the serum heal hypothermia?

Did Natalia feel anything when she died?

You hope not. She was brave in life. She shouldn’t have had to be brave in death, too. 

Your consciousness dwindles. 

You are a person, aren’t you?

You don’t much feel like one at the moment.

No legs, no arms… no body. 

You had a body, didn’t you? 

Is it still yours if you can’t feel it anymore? 

Was it ever really yours to begin with?

Maybe it’s better this way. 

Maybe being a person is overrated.

You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of killing. You’re just… tired. 

Snow falls… grey flakes drifting down from the heavens. 

For the first time in a very long time, you glimpse Russia around you… Iskitim. Is that where you are? That would make sense. 

It’s quite pretty… albeit in a bleak, somber, hopelessly tragic kind of way. You haven’t thought that in a very long time. 

Doesn’t make it any less true. 

A twinge in your gut. You can’t help feeling as though something’s… missing. 

Last time you were here, you saw… red. A mirage of crimson dawn breaking out across the heavens, bathing the untouched snow beneath it in shades of lurid red. 

Where is it?

Whatever. You suppose it doesn’t much matter either way. 

Your end has come, as you always knew it would. 

You just didn’t think it would feel so… peaceful. 

Black spots dance in your vision; grey skies turn to ash. The world around you gradually burns into an ugly black, and yet, there is no fire to be seen. 

Stranger things have happened, you suppose. 

Black, black… so much black. Perhaps it isn’t so ugly, you decide. 

Darkness has only ever been the absence of light. 

Black coffee, like the kind Natalia used to drink. You always thought the taste of it positively abhorrent. 

Black gun oil, smeared around the icy-blue eyes of a man named James who would become the Winter Soldier. The rancid scent of it always lingered in your dreams. 

A polished black stone inlaid into a thin band of silver… a ring with chipped black-painted nails to match. It’s quite pretty—much like the girl who wears it. 

Black… Black… Black. 

_Black Widow lives. Find her._

_Black… Find…_

No, not black. Blue. His eyes… so very, very blue. 

Find… He found you. 

Who is he?

Dark tousled hair long enough to tickle his ears. 

Clenched jaw. His features… strange. 

American?

“ _I’ve got you, little one_ ,” he tells you in a voice so soft, you think you’re dreaming. Someone else used to call you ‘little one.’ “ _You’re safe_.”

His Russian is horrible. 

He holds you in his strong arms, cradles you tenderly against his broad chest like you’re a child. It irks you. You are not a child. You haven’t been one for a very long time. 

But he’s… so warm. Strong. _Safe_. 

You can be irked about it later, you decide. 

For now, he is warm. He is gentle. 

His Russian is horrible, but he is not. 

There’s stubble along his sculpted jaw… you wonder how it would feel to rub your hand over it. A foolish thought, but he doesn’t have to know about it. 

Your eyelids flutter shut, and he does not make you pay for it. Madame certainly would. 

He’s so warm… so warm....

— —

You wake on a twin-sized bed in a modest bedroom. The air is cool, brisk with a wintry chill. Pain rips through you as you sit yourself up on the mattress and let your bare feet swing over the side, nearly crumpling you where you sit.

Your shoulder… Fuck. Did you get shot? Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Grey-ish light streams in through the single window… Overcast skies. 

You look down at your clothes. They look… strange. 

Grey leggings and a long-sleeve shirt to match. The fabric is thin… harsh against the skin. You don’t mind. 

Your shoulder aches. Your head throbs. Your nose… Jesus. 

You must’ve gotten in a fight. Again. 

It’ll be healed soon. A week, maybe two. 

Who are you? 

You bring your hands up to your face, feel along your cheeks. You’re careful to avoid your badly-broken nose. 

You make a note to snag a glimpse of it in the mirror at some point—soon, preferably.

If it’s changed shape at all, you’ll need to reset it. 

More pain. That’s fine. 

Pain will be compartmentalized. 

Outside… unfamiliar. With some effort, you get to your feet. Your head throbs, your vision blurs… but you will not be cowed by it. 

You are marble. You don’t break. 

On legs that feel a hell of lot less steady than you’d like, you walk over to the window. 

Outside, it’s… a bleak, gloomy scene. You don’t recognize it. 

Should you?

Grey-brown-ish sleet lining the single road. A field of frost-bitten grass. Around you, clustered buildings on every side. In the distance, the distinctive silhouette of a peculiar landmark… a church, perhaps? 

No, that’s not quite right. 

A chapel? No. 

A cathedral!

Why does it look familiar?

The name of it is on the tip of your tongue… Cathedral of… something. 

Cathedral of the… Ounce-something. 

No, not ‘ounce.’

An ounce is… a unit of measurement. British-derived. One-sixteenth of a common pound. In America… equivalent to twenty-eight point three grams. 

What’s a gram? 

A clump of green… A lanky teen posted up on a street corner. He smelled like weed. He gave you a light… You can’t remember his name. You can’t remember if you ever knew it in the first place. 

What does it matter anyways? He’s dead. 

Did you kill him?

God, your head aches. 

_Focus_ , a voice in your head chides you. 

The church—cathedral.

One of many with the same namesake scattered all across the globe. 

The window is grimy… its edges lined with frost. Through it, you can see the Latin cross mounted atop a peculiar-shaped dome… like the tip of a bonfire. The kind you’d seen on… St. Basil’s Cathedral. The Red Square? Yes, that sounds right. 

This is not that. It’s far too small to be St. Basil’s Cathedral. 

This is… the Cathedral of the… Enunciation?

No. That’s… an announcement, or the act of sounding something out. 

It’s… close, though—in both definition and pronunciation. 

Cathedral of the… _Annunciation_. 

Yes! That’s it!

The angel called Gabriel… the Virgin Mary. The Bible?

Religion always fascinated you. 

Cathedral of the Annunciation… Yes. 

Where is that located? 

Well. Perhaps a better question would be—where is one _not_ located? Hell, there are at least three in America alone. 

Not in Iskitim, though. You don’t know how you know that, but you do. 

You’ve never been to Iskitim. Have you?

Cathedral of the Annunciation… There’s one in Moscow, you think. 

You’re not in Moscow. 

The tell-tale creak of footsteps from down the hall interrupts your train of thought. 

Someone’s coming. 

You vault over the bed, sit yourself back on the edge of the mattress in perfect silence. 

The sound of rhythmic footfalls dwindles into nothing as someone makes their approach… a likely graduate, then. Trained to be silent, just like you. 

Which would mean the audible sound of their gait (that which heralded their imminent arrival) was intentional. They _wanted_ you to know they were coming. 

The door opens with a creak, swinging inward to reveal… Hm. 

A slim blonde woman with a perky, upturned nose; thinly-pursed lips; and storm-grey eyes that match the dreary heavens above. She’s young… 25, if you had to guess—give or take a couple years. Unarmed save for a single knife in her right boot. Likely right-handed, then. 

Elegant, steady on her feet. Definitely a graduate. Each movement carries a measure of practiced grace—the kind that one develops after years upon years of meticulous application. 

A prima ballerina, through and through. The Madame, perhaps? 

She traipses into the room, comes to loom over you… leaves the door ajar. Another intentional choice, no doubt. 

“ _Hello_ ,” she greets in perfectly-accented Russian. A native speaker. 

You bow your head, staring down at the scuffed tips of her boots—a sign of respect. You have not yet been given permission to speak. 

“ _Nothing to say_ ?” she drawls in a cold, hollow voice. 

A test?

You shift your gaze down to your own feet, small and bare atop the nicked hardwood floors. You say nothing. 

“ _Answer me, Angel_.”

_Angel_ … She doesn’t seem one for terms of endearment, so it must be a name. Surely it’s not yours… is it?

“ _Yes_ ?” you reply without looking up. The single word feels like a sharpened blade as it drags through your airway… sore and raw, like someone choked you out recently. 

_Ouch_. 

“ _Look at me_ ,” she orders next. If she’s at all irked by your reluctance, she does well not to show it. 

You comply. Her grey-eyed gaze is cold… calculating. 

You don’t mind. You were raised in the cold. 

“ _Who are you_ ?” she asks. Her lips barely move to form the words. 

You blink, then hazard a shrug. “ _Whoever Madame needs me to be_.” 

_SLAP!_ An open-handed blow whips your head to one side, causing a familiar burn to break out across your cheek. You barely register it.

“ _Try again_ ,” she says. “ _Who are you_ ?”

Your hands grip the edges of the mattress, bracing you for another hit as you meet her gaze. “ _A weapon_.”

_SLAP!_ Coppery blood explodes across your tongue. You swallow it down. Wrong answer. Again. 

“ _Whose weapon_ ?” she demands. 

Oh. No correlation between being wrong and being hit, then; you get hit either way. 

Splendid. 

“ _Russia’s_ ,” you say, watching her features intently for any hint of warning before—

_SLAP!_ More agony in your shattered nose… a persistent burn that sears your cheek.

Christ, her poker face is excellent. 

Would it kill her to switch it up and slap your other cheek instead?

“ _What’s your name_ ?”

You’ve got no fucking clue. “ _Angel_.”

_SLAP!_ This is going to make for an impressive bruise come nightfall. 

“ _What is the last thing you remember_ ?”

Blue eyes… James? No, you can’t tell her that. “ _Iskitim_.”

_SLAP!_ Blood trickles from your inflamed nostril, burning a hot trail down to the Cupid’s bow of your lips. You flick your tongue out to taste it. 

Warm. Coppery. Wet. 

“ _Iskitim was your home_.”

You almost smirk. Almost. “ _I have no home_.”

No slap this time. Curious. 

“ _Everyone has a home… a place to lay their head_.” Something like nostalgia seeps into her gaze. You don’t trust it for a moment. 

You shrug. “ _I don’t. I have no place in the world_.”

You barely see her hand move before—

_SLAP!_ Blood spurts from your mouth, staining the white-grey bedsheets where you once slept. 

With a not-insignificant amount of effort, you lurch your weight back, sit up straight. Meeting her eye is easier, this time. Like… routine. 

_Fucking hell, that one hurt_.

“ _Who told you that_ ?”

_Told you what?_

You try to think back to what you were talking about… Home. No home. A place to lay your head… A place in the world. _I have no place in the world_. 

_SLAP!_ A blow for your hesitance. The same cheek, _again_. Jesus. 

You swallow another mouthful of coppery blood. The calm grey of her pupils hasn’t changed as they narrow upon you—empty, heartless, cold. 

“ _Who told you that_ ?” she asks again. 

This time, you hasten to answer. “ _Does it matter_ ?”

_SLAP!_ You don’t try to keep the saliva and blood from spraying onto the sheets this time as the force of the impact rocks you to one side. 

More blood trickles from your nose down to your puffy lip. You lap it up as it falls. 

Balance your weight, sit up straight. Look her in the eye. 

“ _Why wouldn’t it_ ?”

“ _Because it’s not a matter of circumstance_.”

A single raised brow—immaculately shaped. Jesus, she must pluck those things within an inch of their lives. ‘Within an inch of one’s life’… An American measurement for an American saying. Why are you thinking in American terms? 

“ _Explain_ ,” she decrees.

“ _The truth doesn’t exist_ ,” you say with a shrug. You don’t know where the words are coming from, but they seem to fit, so you let them flow. “ _Well, it does, but it’s fundamentally inaccessible. Rather, it’s a matter of circumstance. It’s not all things to all people all the time. Neither am I_.”

“ _But your place in the world—or lack thereof—is independent of this ‘truth’ as we understand it_ ,” she ventures, a note of absorption in her measured tone. It’s artificial, much like everything else about her. She has no place in the world.

Neither do you. 

“ _Precisely_ ,” you acknowledge. “ _It’s a reality_.”

“ _And how is that different from a truth_ ?”

“ _It isn’t_ ,” you reply evenly. Another shrug. “ _At least, not in the strictest sense_.”

“ _Explain_.”

“ _Much like truth in any circumstance, it still requires an element of conscious belief_.”

Both brows are raised, now. “ _As opposed to unconscious belief_ ?”

You nod, undeterred by her skepticism. “ _It’s something you choose_.”

The blonde woman falls silent for a spell. 

You wait patiently as an ever-thinning trail of blood dribbles down from your nostrils, wetting the tip of your tongue with a coppery taste you’d know anywhere. 

Not ideal, but it could certainly be worse. You’re just glad she’s not slapping you anymore. 

Eventually, she speaks. “ _And this is something you choose_ ?”

A foolish question, but you answer it anyhow. “ _It has to be_.”

“ _How do you figure that_ ?”

“ _It’s one of the only things I can remember_.” The raw truth of it leaves a putrid taste on your tongue. 

The blonde woman nods, like that answer pleases her. “ _What else do you remember_ ?”

You hold her gaze, searching for a hint of guile. If it’s there, you can’t find it. “ _Pain will be compartmentalized. Love is for children_.”

“ _And you_ ?”

“ _What about me_ ?”

“ _Pain is a powerful intoxicant. It breaks people. Arguably, love is even worse_.”

Ah. Now you understand. “ _I do not break_ ,” you tell her firmly. You mean it. “ _I am marble_.”

The woman nods. “ _You are injured_ ,” she says, then. 

You don’t know what that has to do with anything, but it’s not for you to question. “ _I will heal_.”

“ _You must do so quickly_ ,” she says with finality. “ _There is work to be done_.”

“ _A mission_ ?” You’re pushing it just by asking, and the flicker of annoyance in her gaze is evidence of that. 

She appraises you for a beat, then nods. “ _Yes_.” She turns to leave, then, only stopping at the door to say, “ _Yelena will be up momentarily. She will spar with you_.”

Yelena… You don’t know a Yelena. 

Do you?

You nod. “ _Understood_.”

The blonde woman exits, slipping through the doorway and out into the hall without a sound. 

Curious. 

The moment she slips out, you begin to keep a count in your head. 

One, two, three… 

Sixty. 

On, two, three…

Sixty. 

After five minutes have passed, you swipe a finger under your nose, collecting fat droplets of blood on the pad of your thumb. Red… Red… 

So very, very red. 

A series of snapshots in your mind’s eye. 

Red blood staining the snow… yours and someone else’s. 

Red paint in the shape of a star… chipped and weathered on an arm of welded steel. 

Red hair—coppery, almost bronze, like polished American pennies. 

Red eyes that glow like lanterns in the deep. A flicker of luminescent crimson over a field of glistening snow. 

Warm, wet blood pouring from a gash in your side… an open wound that never stops bleeding. 

Blood trickling down Natalia’s chin as she crouches over you and tells you that she’s sorry, begs you not to die. 

Who is Natalia?

A knock at the doorframe shakes you out of your reverie. 

Another blonde woman stands in the doorway… pouty pink lips, rounded face, hazel eyes tinged with hints of blue. She appears younger than her predecessor. And the way she’s looking at you… cautious. Almost worried, like she knows you can’t remember her. 

“ _Yelena_ ?” you hear yourself ask. Your voice sounds… tinny. Distant. 

The blonde— _Yelena_ —hesitates, her eyes widening a fraction. She steps into the room, shuts the door behind her with a satisfying _click!_ “ _You know my name_ ?”

Not exactly, but you do know better than to show your cards so soon. “ _We fought_.”

Her lips twitch. “ _We always fight_.” She sounds weary. 

You turn to glance at the window, then back at her. “ _That’s the Cathedral of the Annunciation_.” It’s not really a question… but at the same time, it kind of is. 

Yelena squints, tilting her head a bit to peek through. Eventually, she nods. “ _It is_.” 

You bite back a sigh. That still doesn’t tell you where you are. “ _It reminds me of St. Basil’s_.”

Yelena studies it for a moment, then shrugs. “ _St. Basil’s is bigger_.”

You glance down at her knuckles. They’re littered with fresh bruises, like she’s recently been in a fight. She makes no attempt to hide them from your questing gaze—not that that means anything. 

You bite back a sigh. You aren’t getting anywhere with this. Time to tip your hand. “ _Who’d you punch_ ?”

Resignation seeps into her posture all at once. If she didn’t know it before, she knows it now—you don’t remember her. You don’t remember anything. “ _Doesn’t matter_ ,” she says shortly. 

_Ah._ You put two and two together. “ _It was me, wasn’t it_ ?”

Yelena turns the full force of her glare upon you. You don’t shrivel beneath it. “ _Do you want an apology_ ?”

A deflection. Not a particularly subtle one, at that, but you let her have it. “ _Give me a little credit. I’m smarter than that_.”

She eyes you up and down for a long moment. “ _Sometimes I wonder_.” As you watch, she shakes her head and heaves a noiseless sigh. “ _Get up. It’s time to go_.”

“ _You mean, ‘it’s time for you to get your ass kicked across the mats_ ,’” you correct her with a cheeky grin as you rise to your feet. Your nose aches, and your head throbs something awful, but pain will be compartmentalized. 

Yelena doesn’t roll her eyes, but you can tell it’s not for lack of wanting. “ _Let’s reset your nose first. I’d hate to break it again_.”

A snort builds in your chest. It almost hurts to suppress it. “ _Yes. You seem so very remorseful about it_.”

Yelena purses her lips to hide a growing smirk. “ _Smartass_ ,” she mutters. 

The insult strikes a chord within you. _Smartass_ … It sounds better to you in English. Familiar, somehow. 

Why is that?

— —

The turmoil in your head takes a backseat as you throw yourself head-first into sparring. 

Your broken nose has been set with a sharp twist of Yelena’s wrist (which you swore was a little rougher than strictly necessary). It still throbs and aches like a bitch—trickling blood every so often that you’re quick to lap up with your tongue—but at least now it’ll heal straight. 

The training room is empty save for the two of you, which strikes you as a bit odd. Regardless, you don’t let yourself think on it for very long. 

Not like you could, anyhow. 

Yelena holds nothing back as she comes after you—punch after punch, kick after kick. You spend a solid five minutes dodging a flurry of offensive moves, prancing around the mats like a fucking deer. 

Yelena is out for blood, and it shows in her rapacious movements.

Your shoulder aches. Your nose throbs. And there’s this stinging pain in the back of your knee—little more than a passing nuisance, but it piques your curiosity all the same.

Whatever. You can figure it out later. Preferably when you’re not a punch away from getting your nose broken, again. 

Eventually, you split apart, circling each other in the center of the box. You’re panting, struggling to catch your breath. 

Yelena isn’t much better.

“ _Is that all you have_ ?” she taunts between heavy exhales, every syllable ripe with untapped aggression. “ _You’ve been many things over the years, but you’ve never been a coward_.”

You shrug, smearing a dribble of blood into the skin beneath your nose. “ _And you’ve never been gun-shy, yet here we stand_.” God, your throat aches.

A flicker of confusion in Yelena’s gaze—here one second, gone the next. “ _What_ ?”

Sensing an opening, you lunge. Yelena bats your punch away, but can’t quite avoid the jab below her ribs. Still, she gives as good as she gets—slipping a foot behind your heel, swinging an arm around your neck, and yanking, _hard_.

You crash ass-first to the mats with a grunt, and your head follows after a split second later.

Is it possible to have two concussions at once? 

Yelena takes advantage of your downed state, straddles your hips and pins a forearm across your bruised throat. 

You don’t writhe, buck, or try to escape. Something about the way Yelena’s glaring down at you—gaze narrowed, dark and angry with a glimmer of something like genuine curiosity—gives you pause. 

She wants to talk. More importantly, she wants to ask you something. 

You wait her out. 

“ _You said I was ‘gun-shy_ ,’” she says, her words strained with exertion. “ _What did you mean by that_ ?”

You make the split-second decision to go for honesty here. “ _You want to talk to me about something_ ,” you tell her, noting the flicker of recognition that sparks in her darkened gaze. “ _But you know that I don’t remember, so you’re holding back_.”

Yelena pushes herself off of you with a grunt—and damn near crushes your airway as she does it, though you’re careful not to wince. 

She peers down at you like you’re the dirt beneath her shoe, lips twisted to form a snarl. “ _You don’t know what you’re talking about_ ,” she dismisses angrily, then snaps her fingers at you. “ _Get up_.”

You roll your eyes but comply, pushing yourself upright and into a fighting stance once more. 

“ _I met the new Madame_ ,” you say. Her lips are pursed with annoyance as she begins to circle you. You match her step for step. 

“ _I know_.”

You dart back to evade the round-house kick she levels at your head, return it with one of your own. She bats it away with ease. 

“ _Does she have a name_ ?” you ask. 

Yelena throws a hard left hook that bruises your forearm as you block it. “ _Does that matter_ ?”

A hard kick to your ribs. That’ll definitely leave a mark. You hop back to avoid another one. “ _I suppose not_ ,” you concede breathlessly. 

Yelena turns her shoulder towards you to avoid a punch, giving you an opportunity to lurch back and level a hard kick across the backs of her knees. 

She crumples at once, but manages to catch herself with a sprawled hand to the mats before her knees can hit the ground. 

You fire a kick to make her duck and roll, then pounce on her before she can come up. It’s a grappler’s move—almost amateur-ish in nature. No finesse, no stealth. 

Still, you manage to make it work for you. 

Straddle her hips, shuffle up on your shins until you can pin down both elbows beneath your knees. Lastly, slam a forearm down into her throat, and you’re in business.

“ _Hi_ ,” you say, panting. Your faces are mere inches apart. On a whim, you sniffle—once, then twice—to keep any blood from dribbling out of your nose and onto her. 

Yelena just glares. “ _Get off of me_.”

“ _You found me in America, didn’t you_ ?”

“ _What does it matter_ ?”

“ _My god, you’re stubborn_.” You shake your head, huffing out a breathless laugh that only seems to make Yelena all the more murderous. “ _The mission Madame spoke to me about—you’re on it, too, aren’t you_ ?”

Yelena gnashes her teeth at you, looking utterly feral as she struggles against your grip. You don’t relent. “ _I don’t answer to you_ ,” she spits out. 

“ _I’m not your enemy_ ,” you counter, frustration prickling along your sweat-damp skin. “ _You know that as well as I_.”

Yelena scoffs, but there’s no humor in it. Just anger and… pain.

A suspicion begins to form in your scattered mind. “ _I’m sorry I fought you_ ,” you tell her, and you mean it—even if the exact details are lost on you. “ _I’m sorry I hurt you_.”

Yelena’s cheeks are flush with fury. “ _You could never hurt me_ ,” she snarls, words hoarse and rough. You ease up a little on her throat. “ _You’re too weak_.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” you repeat, undeterred by her animosity. She needs to hear this, and you need to tell her. “ _Okay? I am_.”

“ _Your apologies mean nothing to me_ ,” she growls. Her words—suffused with rage as they may be—are hollow. She heard you. What’s more, she _listened_. “ _Now, get. Off. Of. Me_.” 

You push off of her with a sigh, getting to your feet and offering her a hand up. 

She swats it away with a scowl. 

That almost makes you smile. Almost. 

— —

By the end of the third hour, you’re drenched in sweat. Your muscles burn; your lungs ache from exertion. Fresh bruises have begun to peek through almost every inch of your flushed, sweaty skin—black and green and blue all over. 

Your nose is still bleeding but not re-broken, though, and you can no longer taste the copper of your own blood as it fills your mouth. At least that’s something. 

The long-sleeve shirt is plastered to your skin with sweat. You’ve bled through the bandages on your shoulder, too, as evidenced by the ever-growing stain of blooming crimson beneath your shoulder. 

You strip it off as you trail Yelena out of the training room, wadding it up into a tight bundle in one hand. There, Yelena takes a left without explanation, leaving you to continue on. 

Down the hall, up the staircase… First door on the right. 

Your mattress is stripped clean—no sign of the blood-spattered sheets from earlier. Atop it sits a folded towel and a fresh change of clothes—grey and boring, identical to what you’re wearing now. 

You snatch up the towel and the clothes, then walk off in search of the communal showers. You find them a couple minutes later on the floor above yours—white tile, age-weathered sinks, a row of bathroom stalls without locks. 

The showers aren’t much better—a series of open stalls without doors, shower heads tarnished with rust. 

You’ve certainly made do with far less. 

You drop the dry clothes and towel onto the long wooden bench sitting opposite the showers, then hang your damp long-sleeve on the single towel rod nearby. 

You eye your reflection in the grimy full-body mirror on one of the walls as you gingerly strip down—leggings, panties, then sports bra. You leave them in a wet, crumpled pile beneath the bench. 

You look like you got curb-stomped by an angry mob. Bruises and various scabbed-over cuts you don’t remember getting litter your body. Large handprint-shaped bruises curl around either bicep. You have no idea who gave those to you. 

Your nose… inflamed as hell; a mess of purple, blue, and black bruising. The coloring beneath your eyes is slightly better—no black to be seen, just darker shades of blue and green. Red stains the skin beneath your nose, and all around your mouth, too—old blood and new. 

Your cheek—the one Madame rained a beating down upon—is puffy and swollen, purplish bruises peeking through the tawny flesh. 

The bandage around your left shoulder is completely soaked through with blood and sweat, forming pinkish droplets that trickle down your bare torso even as you watch. 

After a moment’s hesitation, you tear off the bandages. It stings your healing wound something awful, but you don’t care. 

You want to see it. 

It’s a clean shot—small, circular, your inflamed skin a little torn around the edges. Approximately the size of an American dime. 

God, what is it with you and American things today?

It oozes thick, warm blood as you watch. 

_Fuck_.

All of a sudden, a nagging thought enters your brain—the stinging sensation on the back of your right knee. 

It aches, even now. 

You prop your foot up on the wooden bench, crane your neck down to get a good look. 

There, beneath the crease of your knee… letters carved messily into your skin. _Words_.

They’re unintelligible, smeared with blood and crusted-over scabs. They look like English. 

“ _What the fuck_ ?” you mutter. Spanish. You’ve always loved the language. 

You grab your towel, run over to the sink, and wet the corner of it. 

Then, you reassume your earlier position—right foot propped up on the bench, neck craned to get a good look. 

The dried blood gets blotted away pretty easily, but the scabs, you just have to peel off. 

Blood trickles down your calf as you work. It stings, but that hardly matters. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

Finally, the wound is reopened, and the words—though still crude—are clear: _Protect Natalia_.

Your brow furrows. 

Who the fuck is Natalia?

— —

**Author's Note:**

> [alexei shostakov](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Alexi_Shostakov_\(Earth-616\)) | in the comics, he is portrayed as natasha’s ex-husband, trained and genetically enhanced to be russia’s answer to captain america. overall kind of an unpleasant dude. i understand that the _black widow_ movie will have him portrayed more as a father figure to natasha than anything else, but for the purposes of this series, i’m writing him based off of the original characterization
> 
> uhh ok please feel free to let me know what you thought! honestly the relationship with yelena wasn't supposed to be that deep but i kinda adore her character so here we are
> 
> and hopefully i should be able to start working on a continuation soon, though absolutely no guarantees as i'm leaving for college again soon and things are gonna get crazy again
> 
> also, if you've stuck with me this far, you deserve, like, a medal probably and i love you a lot. i really suck at answering comments (i'm genuinely trying to get better at that), but just know if you commented at all throughout this series, i have read it and it's inspired me a hell of a lot more than i can say to keep writing and sharing my stuff
> 
> oh and if you wanna come yell at me on the tumblr i made primarily for reader-insert stuff and answering writing asks, i'm @novoaa1writes ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))


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